


Never Will I Convict My King

by Alone_With_the_Way_it_Was



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, dramatic twists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alone_With_the_Way_it_Was/pseuds/Alone_With_the_Way_it_Was
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is just starting to get through the grieving process and beginning to deal with Sherlock's death when mysterious packages start arriving, throwing his whole world into doubt. Meanwhile, a confusing case brings John back into the world of criminal mysteries and brings about new beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to my first story for the Sherlock fandom. For the first few chapters, I'll be posting one every week, but after that, the posting schedule will vary a bit more. Thanks for reading, and the first full chapter will be up next week.

**Prologue: The Man at the Grave**

It had been a long time since that particular grave had gotten any visitors. After the first month or so since the death, no one had stopped by to pay their respects to the dearly departed, as it was with most graves in the world. Those who are left behind simply move on, trying not to think about their departed friend, family member, or lover. So it was strange to see that this particular grave, which had had exceptionally poor attendance, had a visitor.

He stood, stoic in his grief, at the foot of the grave. His head was bent, out of a reverent respect for his departed friend. In his hands, he held a simple bouquet of white carnations, lilacs, and forget-me-nots. His hands, rough and calloused, shook as he set the flowers at the headstone, right over the place where the departed's head would be resting. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks, betraying his mask of composed sorrow. He removed the dead flowers left over from the funeral five months previous, sweeping them away so they could decompose into the earth. With that, he had no more busy work to keep himself distracted from what he had set out to do. He rested his right hand on the headstone and kissed the stone slab, about to whisper farewell one last time.

His resolve failed him in that moment, and he finally crumbled to the earth, his tears no longer silent. He was a man utterly broken by his grief, unable to keep up the facade of healing and recovery that he had perfected in the months since his very best friend had taken his own life. He still saw him falling every night when he closed his eyes. The man falling through the air in front of him and the sounds of his body shattering as it hit the pavement still haunted his sleep. The dark circles under his eyes made that all too obvious to those who knew him. He hadn't eaten much recently. He'd lost weight, anyone who knew him before the grief would have noticed that. His cheeks were gaunt to the point where his cheekbones were reminiscent of the sharp ones belonging to his deceased friend. He had reverted back to his painful psychosomatic limp from the days after he returned from the war, to the alarm of his therapist and friends.

They had been concerned about him, his friends, but he'd gotten rather good at hiding the sadness. If he appeared sad, they swarmed about him like ants around a scrap of food and suffocated him with their worrying and pitying. He hated being pitied. It made him feel weak. The soldier in him hated feeling weak.

Eventually, the man's crying quieted. He lifted his head, wiping away the remaining tears. He pushed himself up from the ground, brushing the dirt off his trousers to give himself time to completely stop his tears. Finally, he straightened up, snapped off a military salute, and turned to limp away. But he stopped after about two feet, his shoulders sinking again. He hadn't finished his task. Sure, he didn't want to do it, really. But his therapist was right, this wasn't healthy. The broken man turned back to the grave.

The man's words were soft and sad, almost inaudible. They had a finality to them, as if he'd never say them again.

"Goodbye Sherlock"

As he turned away and set out on his way out of the cemetery, he didn't notice the man in the distance. The man who had seen everything that had just happened, intending to visit the grave himself until he noticed that the grave already had a visitor arriving. He had thought that he would just wait out the other man, considering that their last few interactions hadn't gone very well. However, what he had seen had startled him. He didn't expect the show of grief that he saw, the pure depression that radiated from the gravesite. The silent observer filed the interaction away in his brain, knowing that what he had feared was beginning to become a reality.

John Watson was a man broken, perhaps beyond repair.


	2. Ch. 1: The First Package

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the first full chapter. The next chapter (a short interlude) will be up next Saturday. If you are interested, you can follow me on tumblr (username cwrosebud). Hope you enjoy, and I'll be back next week!

_"Look at you, sullen in yielding, brutal in your rage— you will go too far. It's perfect justice: natures like yours are hardest on themselves. "– "Oedipus Rex" 746-748_

Ch. 1: The First Package

John couldn't really understand why he was punishing himself like this. The grief was hard enough. His episode at Sherlock's grave that morning when he went to say goodbye was proof enough of that. He was ashamed of how hard he had broken down. John couldn't remember ever crying that hard before Sherlock had... jumped. He still couldn't bring himself to say it. The grim reality. The "D word", as he had dubbed it in his mind. He had only said it once, to his therapist, and that had felt getting shot in Afghanistan all over again. He had admitted this to his therapist, and she had once again threatened him with a Zanex prescription. John had simply laughed off that idea. He was a doctor, after all. He would know when he required medication, wouldn't he? John knew that he should be moving on, pretty much everyone else had. But a part of him still couldn't comprehend that Sherlock was actually...gone. It just didn't feel real.

And now, here he was, standing at the doorstep of 221b. It felt like Sherlock was going to pull up in a cab at any minute and let him into their flat, just like he had when John had first moved in. But it could never be like that again, so John just let himself into the flat.

It had been five months since the fall, and this was the first time that John had been back to 221b. Just the thought of the cozy, familiar flat had become too painful for him to bear. The idea of the smell of all of Sherlock's now-abandoned experiments, the familiar skull on the mantelpiece, and the yellow smiley-face on the wall riddled with bullet holes now taunted him. Even now, there was a deep pain in his soul and an uncomfortable ache in his chest at the thought of returning. He had only returned today because Mrs. Hudson had called him over. Apparently she needed him to box up some of Sherlock's old things for her. Probably some of Sherlock's old experiments that she had no idea what to do with. As if he would know what to do with them.

The entryway looked exactly the same as it had, all wallpapered in Mrs. Hudson's classic hideous prints. Yet all John could see were the ghosts. The ghosts of him and Sherlock, giggling like schoolgirls in the entryway, bounding up the stairs, and panting after a long run. The ghosts of the night when Sherlock had been drugged by Irene Adler, and John had carried his raving friend up the creaky stairs. The ghosts of them, every day and every night, almost always side by side. These ghosts ran through John's mind, tormenting him as he stood in the entryway. The echoes still rang through John's ears.

Memories were flooding his brain, he saw Sherlock in every inch of the entryway, on every step on the creaky stairs and in every repeated pattern in the wallpaper. Sudden tears came to John's eyes, surprising the man who had thought that all of his tear ducts had dried up after his ordeal this morning. He wasn't surprised that Mrs. Hudson hadn't put 221b up for rent. Sherlock's essence filled the whole building. Speaking of his former landlady...

"Mrs. Hudson?" A squeak came from around the corner, and before John could even blink, the kindly older woman scurried up and gave him a huge hug.

"Oh John, It's so good to see you again." John felt himself relaxing at the hug and the sound of her voice. It really had been too long.

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Hudson." After relishing the moment for a few seconds, John pulled away from the hug. "Now, what was it you wanted me to box up for you?"

"Oh now, we'll get to that. You boys always were rushing around, all businesslike and such. Never any time to stop and relax. Now come and sit down, I'll brew you a cuppa and we can catch up." She started to pull him into her kitchen, and John started mentally panicking. This wouldn't go well at all. She'd be far too interested in how he was feeling and what he'd been up to, and John just didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

"Err...um...How about we just get right to the stuff you need me to look at." Mrs. Hudson turned around, sad surprise in her eyes. "It's just...well... I didn't really plan on staying long. Too many painful memories, ya know."

Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue sympathetically; the crestfallen look in her eyes turning into that goddamned pity that John hated so much.

"Oh,  _John_..." The heavy sigh that accented his name was so piteous, it took all of John's self restraint to not leave right then and there. He held himself firm, shifting into military posture, his default mode these days. She embraced him again, but he couldn't find the strength to hug her back without losing whatever remnants of self-control that he had left. Finally, the kind landlady pulled away.

"All of his experiments, they're still up there. I got rid of the body parts; the smell was bothering Mrs. Turner and her married ones next door. And I took some of the equipment to a local school, but I left most of it here. All of his clothes and books and such are still there too. Mycroft hasn't come to get them or anything, so I assume that I need to do something with them." The two started up the stairs to the flat. John made sure to stay a couple steps behind, partially out of respect for Mrs. Hudson and partially because he was steeling himself for the sights and smells that would almost surely break him into tiny pieces of destroyed grief, and there would be no going back once he reached that point. The door clicked open, and John squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he followed his former landlady into the flat that held the only eighteen months of his life that really mattered, when it came down to honesty.

From the moment John stepped into the sitting area, the scent of Sherlock overwhelmed him. It was a strange mix of honey, tea, and cigarette smoke that surprisingly comforted him, enveloped him in its familiarity. It brought a brief smile to John's face, until he remembered that the smell had only remained because the flat had been uninhabited for the past five months. John took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting aroma to steady himself, and opened his eyes.

The flat looked almost exactly the same as it always had. Papers were stacked in piles and scattered on almost every surface, books are crammed awkwardly into the too-small bookshelves, and equipment covered basically every surface available in the kitchen. Almost nothing had been touched since that last day they had lived here. Instead of being stricken with sadness at the sight, as he'd thought that he'd be, John was comforted by the idea that a remnant of Sherlock still existed in the world.

Mrs. Hudson had moved into the kitchen while John stood there, taking in the flat that he hadn't realized that he'd missed. She was pulling some cardboard boxes out from under the sink and setting them up next to the leftover equipment, the beakers and tubes that had been either beyond cleaning or that she didn't understand enough to donate to the school several blocks down. John was too caught up in his reminiscing to notice any of this, so needless to say he was startled when Mrs. Hudson called out to him.

"John? John, are you all right, dear?"

"Jesus Christ!" John yelped as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He caught himself before he could react too violently, but his heart still raced and he couldn't quite catch his breath.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry!" The elderly woman scurried (there was no other word for it, really) up to John, guiding him down to his typical armchair near the hearth. "I should have known that you would be affected by being back here, really. How silly of me..." Her voice trailed of as she reached for a blanket.

"No, no, really it's not..." John started to get back up. The pity was back in his former landlady's eyes, and he just couldn't handle that on top of everything else right now. "If you don't mind, I'll just get started with the packing then." Mrs. Hudson looked almost startled, but she finally nodded, and pointed over to the boxes near the science equipment in the kitchen.

"Why don't you start with all that, then? I'll just go and...make you some tea for while you work..." Still appearing slightly stunned, the elderly woman turned and tottered down to her kitchen.

John pulled himself together, took a couple of deep breaths, and set about work. The equipment wasn't hard to deal with, really. Sure, some of the experiments that had been abandoned in Sherlock's...err...absence had left nasty stains (one particularly nasty stain resembled blood. John got a little faint at the sight of that one.), but there wasn't anything beyond vile left for John to deal with.

He had been working for about half an hour when Mrs. Hudson came back in, a puzzled look on her face. She was carrying a cardboard box that was covered in various stamps and paraphernalia. It was also a bit beat up, with one of the corners smashed in. Clearly it had been in the mail system for quite some time.

"John, dear, this package just arrived..." John nodded and turned back to his work. Clearly Mrs. Hudson wanted to open her package up here, with him then. She didn't have any current renters, so there's no one else it could belong to. So he was beyond startled when she said, "John...it's for you."

John froze. A package for him? But he didn't even live here any more. He was renting a flat close by the surgery, several blocks away. This wasn't just a wrong address. No, this was something far more sinister, something that smelled suspiciously of Moriarty. John stood, walked slowly to his former landlady, and cautiously took the package from her trembling hands. He set it down on the carpet, stared at it for a few moments, and nodded to himself. Moriarty was good with bombs. But he wouldn't...would he? After Sherlock had been dead for five months?

"Right then. Mrs. Hudson, would you mind if I opened this privately?" John's grim stare clearly startled the older woman, but she nodded and went back down the stairs, looking over her shoulder nervously as she did so.

John took a deep breath, inhaling the remnants of Sherlock's scent to steady himself, and approached the box. It looked tame enough, but the soldier in him cautioned that bombs always did. Slowly, carefully, John opened the box. He jumped backwards immediately, flinching as he did so, but no explosion came. The little box still sat there, now opened to the world. John crept up next to it again and cautiously peaked in.

At first, John thought it was just a large piece of fabric. Then he noticed the contours of the fabric, the way it was draped inside the box. It resembled some kind of a muffler or a...scarf. Realization hitting him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. That color, it couldn't be...? Scarcely breathing, John reached down and picked up the fabric, unfolding it as he did so. Once the fabric was fully extended, a sharp intake of air caught in John's throat. There was no doubt about it now.

It was Sherlock's scarf.


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize now for two things: 1.) This isn't really a chapter, just a short interlude into the story, and 2.) I'll be posting pretty late on Saturday. I won't have much internet access all day, but I will get the next chapter up. I promise :) Kudos and comments are much appreciated, and I'll see you on Saturday.

Interlude

The rain on the German street didn't deter the man and woman out for a stroll that gloomy afternoon. An observer would have assumed that the two were a couple, but we all know what people say about assumptions. The two were colleagues of a sort, both out on a mission that had taken them far from the lives they had once known. They were, in reality, very cold and uninterested in each other, brought together only by necessity.

Luckily, the mission was going very well, and they would be able to return sooner rather than later. The five months of this mission had taken them all over Europe, but Germany was their final destination before their return. The relief of knowing that they were almost done weighed most heavily on the man. This was, technically, his mission, and he had the most to gain from their success. Achieving their goal meant him gaining back everything he had lost, which was basically his whole life.

She didn't have quite so much riding on this mission. Whether or not the mission succeeded mattered very little to her, so long as nothing really changed for her. This was nothing new for her, she went on these kind of missions all the time. So this one was the longest she had ever been on; it was almost done, and that was what mattered.

The man lead them into a small cafe with large windows on the street corner. The two settled into the table in front of one of the windows and the woman ordered something to drink. The man completely ignored the waiter, keeping his eyes open as he studied the area around them. They were completely inconspicuous, blending in with the other cafe-goers.

They sat like this for about an hour, the man watching the people around them, the woman sipping her caffeinated drink and looking slightly bored. Suddenly, the man shoot up, clearly noticing whom or what he had been looking for, and took off at a run. The woman didn't immediately follow her companion, however. Instead, she pulled out her phone and examined the text she had just received. It contained only a simple sentence, but it was the message that she had been waiting for since the mission had begun.

**"The clock is ticking. Finish up and return."**

The woman smiled to herself, tucked her phone back into her coat pocket, and followed after her colleague.


	4. Ch.2: The Man With the Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! Here's the latest chapter. It's my favorite so far, and I hope that you all enjoy it. The next chapter will be up as scheduled next Saturday. Have fun! :)

Just send me home. You bear your burdens,

I'll bear mine. It's better that way,

please believe me.

– "Oedipus Rex" Lines  _364-366_

Ch. 2: The Man With the Memories

It was a bitter John who was still examining the scarf several hours later. He had returned to his new flat, a snug little one-bedroom. The scarf lay on the floor in front of the armchair that John was currently sitting in, taunting him every time he cast a confused glance its way. He had absolutely no idea what to do with the scarf of his best friend, a scarf that had supposedly been buried with said best friend.

The package it had been sent in had been no real help. If all of the stamps were to be believed, than this scarf had been traveling the world. There were stamps from almost every continent (Antarctica excluded) and so many different languages that John couldn't even hope to name all of them.

John had no idea what he should do with the scarf. Obviously he intended to keep it, it would kill him to let go of the soft fabric now and lose this treasured piece of his best friend. But someone needed to know that the scarf wasn't buried with Sherlock Holmes, as had been believed. Not just him or Mrs. Hudson, but somebody who could actually do  _something_.

John sighed, his hands covering his face. He knew exactly who he needed to go to, but he dreaded the encounter. The last time he had spoken with Mycroft Holmes, he had yelled at him and fought the intense urge to slap the man who had contributed to the destruction of a certain consulting detective. John hadn't spoken to Mycroft since that last encounter, but Mycroft had texted John frequently in the first weeks after the death. John had ignored all of the texts, but they were still on his phone, and he still had Mycroft's number.

John picked his phone up apprehensively, and started composing a text. After a couple of drafts, he settled on one that was just vague enough that Mycroft might actually be confused enough that John could get his attention.

**"We've got a problem. It involves Sherlock."**

There. It was done. John maneuvered to press the "send" button, but then he paused. If he sent this now, then he would never get any sleep tonight. Mycroft would have him up all night being dragged to some secret location where they could talk. No, it would be better if John waited and sent this text in the morning. John pulled himself up from the armchair with a loaded sigh and started towards his bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, turning back towards the scarf that still lay on the hardwood floor. Should he...? No, that was way too morbid. And yet...

John walked back over to the scarf, snatched it up, and held it to his chest. The soft fabric was comforting, and he could feel that crushing ache in his chest that had held on since that fateful day outside of St. Bart's ease up, just a bit. There was something about this scarf, something so incredibly soothing about this remnant of the friend he missed with such an intense passion. He needed this.

John turned again to his bedroom, carrying the precious scarf in his arms. Once he had undressed and slipped on the comfy pants that he usually wore to bed, the ones that had actually prompted Sherlock to look up from his violin playing one night, he settled into his bed, hugging the scarf tightly to his bare chest. But instead of sleep claiming him, he was swarmed by memories of a night long gone...

* * *

_It was a surprisingly warm spring night, and Sherlock was bored. They had just finished a particularly gruesome case involving a body drained entirely of its blood and a bizarre cult, and once Sherlock had solved the case with glee, he was left with nothing to do._

_"Bored. Bored. Bored. BORED."_

_"Sherlock. We've been home for all of ten minutes. Are you really bored already?" Sherlock shot John a dark scowl at that remark and shifted onto his side. John got up from his armchair and headed into the kitchen. "Will you actually eat dinner tonight, then?" He could hear a distinct sigh coming from the couch._

_"Is that how normal people entertain themselves? Eating?" John rolled his eyes._

_"Well, SOME people eat because they actually need nutrition to survive. But I guess that there are some who eat just for the enjoyment of it." John was digging around in their drawer of take-out menus, searching for one from a particularly delicious curry place when he heard Sherlock's voice again, much closer this time._

_"Could we experiment then?" John's head whipped around, and he was startled to find that Sherlock had snuck up behind him and was, in fact, standing directly behind him. When he turned around, their faces were so close together that they would have kissed if they moved even a centimeter closer. John could hardly breathe. Sherlock's eyes, so close to his own, seemed to see through every shield that John had put up. Neither one of them spoke for several seconds, letting the silence reverberate throughout the flat. They just stood there, caught in the moment._

_John felt a sudden primal instinct to close the gap between them, to kiss those soft-looking lips that had taunted him for so long now. He found that his mind had gone completely blank except for the thought of kissing Sherlock, touching Sherlock, grasping Sherlock. It took all of his strength to fight the heat that was suddenly running through his veins and break the silence._

_"Um.. yeah, sure I guess. What kind of experiment were you thinking of?" John stepped back, trying to pull himself back together by separating himself from the man whom he lusted after. The man in question was still staring at John, as though he was mesmerized and couldn't look away. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?" John waved his hand in front of his friend's face. Finally, Sherlock blinked and seemed to come back to reality._

_"Anything you like will be satisfactory. The experiment will be whether or not I get enjoyment out of the consumption of the food." Sherlock turned away, still seeming a little dazed as he did so. John just watched him walk away into his bedroom, unsure whether or not he should go after him._

_Once the food order had been called in, John just sat in his armchair in a stupor. Had that really just happened? Had he just almost clued Sherlock in on the burning desire that coursed through his body at the thought of the handsome consulting detective. He couldn't deny that he'd thought about Sherlock in a romantic way before, but he'd pushed those feelings down in an effort to keep their friendship functional. Sherlock had made it very clear that he wasn't interested on that first night at Angelo's, and John didn't want to screw up what was the best friendship that he had ever had with romantic feelings._

_But now... John had no clue how to proceed from this. If Sherlock called him out on his feelings now, he'd probably have to look for a new flat. He'd have to find a new flatmate; there was no way that he could afford a flat in London on his own._

_Maybe Sherlock wouldn't say anything about it. Yeah, that was probably the best case scenario. They could just move on with their lives, and this evening would just be a blip on the radar._

_But there was a third option, one that John immediately brushed off as being the most unlikely. Even the idea that Sherlock might have similar romantic feelings for John seemed so improbable, so impossible, that John immediately set that idea back into the tiniest corner of his brain where he wouldn't focus on it._

_The buzz signaling the arrival of dinner snapped John out of his anxious reverie. Once he set up all of the food on the table, he knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door._

_"Sherlock? The food is here. Do you still want to experiment with it?" John was met with silence. Just when he began contemplating breaking down the door to make sure that Sherlock was still alive, the door opened and Sherlock appeared in the frame._

_"Of course. Shall we get started then?" Sherlock brushed past John and into the kitchen, John following closely behind. Sherlock sat down and began to eat. He stopped after about a minute, at which point he seemed to have noticed that John wasn't eating. He was just standing behind the chair opposite Sherlock with a look of dazed confusion on his face. "Well? Aren't you going to eat?" That pulled John back down to reality._

_"Yes, yes, of course." John shook his head, clearing the fog from his brain, and sat down. John pulled some food over and started to eat, but all the while, he still watched Sherlock, who was devouring his curry with great gusto. John swallowed his feelings and his food and said nothing. The meal was relatively silent, with the exception of the chewing noises. Finally, they had completed their meal._

_"Well then. That was supposed to entertain me?" Sherlock pushed back in his chair and stared pointedly at John._

_"Well, if we'd had anything to talk about, maybe it'd have been more stimulating for you." John was starting to get a bit irritated now. Sherlock had clearly chosen to forget about their little moment earlier, and even though John had decided that that was, in fact, the best option, he was still irritated that this whole thing was just going to be ignored forever. Sherlock shook his head, and first, John thought that Sherlock had heard what John had been thinking. But then Sherlock spoke._

_"No, even conversation couldn't be that entertaining." John just rolled his eyes, taking yet another Sherlock-ism with a grain of salt._

_"Oh, why don't we just get drunk and call it a night?"_

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Actually, John, that might be rather entertaining."_

_John was stunned by the sudden turn of events. He'd suggested drinking as a joke. "Are you sure? I mean...have you ever even been drunk before?" Sherlock chuckling to himself, got up and went over to the fridge. John watched as he grabbed some beers and set them back down on the beat-up kitchen table._

_"Well then. Shall we begin?"_

* * *

_A couple of hours later found John very drunk. His worries and anxieties from earlier that evening had been pushed to the back of his mind, and he found that he was rather enjoying himself. Sherlock too seemed to be pleasantly drunk, though not nearly as much as John. About an hour previous, they had turned on the telly and had proceeded to laugh raucously at several programs that Sherlock would have otherwise scoffed over. It was the most fun they'd ever had without somebody being dead._

_"John. John. John. JAWN. Did you see that John? Those girls are about as drunk as you are." Sherlock seemed to be the kind of drunk that found essentially everything hilarious. John found it adorable._

_"Yeah, except...except I miiiiiihgt be a liiiiittle more drunk than they arrrre." John was slurring majorly now, but he was having too much fun to really care. Sherlock cracked up, launching into high-pitched giggles that rang through the room. The giggles prompted John to laugh, and soon they were laughing so damn hard that their sides ached and they had collapsed onto the floor._

_John was laughing so hard that he didn't notice that Sherlock was no longer laughing. In fact, John took absolutely no notice of the fact that Sherlock was inching closer to him. John only noticed the change when he turned around and found that Sherlock was staring him in the eye, only centimeters separating the two of them, echoing the position that they had been in earlier that evening. "Sherlock, what are you-" Before John had a chance to finish his sentence, a pair of soft lips slammed into John's own lips, and John put all of his strength into kissing Sherlock._

_The kiss was deep and intense with a touch of awkwardness. It was a flurry of lips, tongues, and teeth smacking against each other in a frenzied passion. John was drunk on both alcohol and Sherlock's lips now. In the back of his mind, there was a voice telling him to stop, now, before it was too late. But oh, Sherlock's tongue had slipped between his lips now, and John was in the kind of heaven that only occurred in Mills and Boon novels. John started to fight for control now, trying to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth now. In response, Sherlock positioned himself on top of John, and they writhed on the floor together._

_All of sudden, a feeling of withdrawal hit John over the head. When he opened his eyes, he found Sherlock looking down at him, a look of shock and horror on his face._

_"Sherlock?" John blinked in confusion, still in an orgasmic stupor. Sherlock seemed to stiffen at the sound of John's voice, and he shakily rose from where he had been sitting on the carpet. With one last look at John, Sherlock turned and walked slowly back into his bedroom, quivering as he did so. John watched him go._

* * *

John smiled bitterly at the memory of the one drunken night that would be the only romantic encounter he would ever have with Sherlock Holmes. While the kisses in themselves had been beautiful, the following morning had been a ruddy disaster. He and Sherlock could hardly look each other in the eye, and they barely spoke. Sherlock had been the first to mention the night before.

_"John. I feel that the drunken events of last night are better off forgotten, would you agree?"_

John had nodded, still attempting to process everything that had happened while facing a brutal hangover. And a week later, Sherlock was dead and John was forever broken. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and John would give everything he had to change his response that morning. To say "No, Sherlock, I don't want to forget. I want us to be a couple and I want to kiss you every day for the rest of our lives." But if time travel existed, Sherlock would be alive and John could say all of that to him now.

John lay back on his bed, clinging to the scarf that had intensified all of his memories and losing himself in the past. Eventually, a restless sleep claimed him.


	5. Ch. 3: The Man With The Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just start by apologizing for not posting this yesterday. I don't really have an excuse other than that I just forgot. I hope that this chapter will make you forgive me. Anyway, next chapter WILL be up next Saturday. Hope you enjoy!

If ever, once in the past, you stopped some ruin

launched against our walls

you hurled the flame of pain

far, far from Thebes—you gods,

come now, come down once more!

– "Oedipus Rex" Lines _186-189_

 

Ch. 3: The Man With the Keys

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man. It made sense, really. If he was going to essentially run a country, he should be busy twenty-four seven. And he was. He spent nearly every day in his office or at the club, sorting through all kinds of political deals and scandals behind closed doors. Today, Mycroft was in his office, waiting for an important development in his most recent international issue.

Yes, Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man. However, he had always made time to meddle in his brother's life. Mycroft had always worried about Sherlock, and he wanted to make sure that his brother wasn't out getting himself killed. He still meddled, even after his brother had faked his death and set out on an expedition to destroy Moriarty's web of crime. Of course, his brother hadn't exactly made those plans known to him. Mycroft had even, for about a week, believed his brother dead. But once he had put the pieces together, it had been all too easy to find his brother (hiding out at a certain Molly Hooper's house) and convince him that he required the assistance of his influential older brother. Now Sherlock was traveling Europe looking for the most powerful and dangerous members of Moriarty's organization.

It must be admitted, however, that Mycroft didn't entirely support his brother's behavior as to the Fall. While he didn't see many alternatives to how everything had played out, Mycroft was still worried about John Watson. He obviously wasn't aware of Sherlock's plan, and the poor man seemed rather incredibly depressed. Sherlock probably had no idea the affect his plot had on his former flatmate.

It was at this time, in the middle of his reflection over the past months, that Mycroft's phone buzzed rather loudly on his desk. He picked it up and looked at the text that he'd just received. A rare grin came across his face. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.

"I'm going to need my car brought around now." The rest of his business could wait until tomorrow. This was important.

 

 

It was about ten in the morning when John finally sent the text to Mycroft. He had slept surprisingly well. He hadn't gotten a good nights sleep for five months. Clearly all he needed was the scarf, the last piece of Sherlock that he had. John had woken up to find himself curled around the soft fabric. Aside from the back problems that came from sleeping in that position, John actually felt strong for once. He might actually be able to go without his cane for a day. Considering the previous days events, he was probably due for one good day, he would think. And anyway, he would need this strength to deal with Mycroft in order to get to the bottom of the mystery. Who, exactly, had sent him this godsend of a scarf?

No less than ten minutes after John had sent the text, his phone pinged with a new text message. John was in the middle of his breakfast, so he just read it over his morning cereal.

" **You might want to put on some actual clothing and clean up the breakfast cereal."**

John choked, nearly spitting his cereal all over his kitchen table. How did he...? Oh, right...it's Mycroft. John quickly dressed and headed outside, where he was met by a shiny black town car waiting on the street in front of his flat. The door opened, and John climbed into the plush car. He was taken aback to find that Mycroft was actually waiting in the car for him, instead of waiting at some alternate location.

"Good morning Dr. Watson." Mycroft seemed, if it was possible, even more formal than usual.

"Good morning."

"Well, then. You've called me here for a reason. What is it that has led you to end your childish silence towards me?" Mycroft cocked his head inquisitively. "This has something to do with my brother?"

John swallowed nervously. "Yesterday, a package was delivered to 221b. A package addressed to me." Mycroft's eyebrows shot up at this. "Inside of it was Sherlock's scarf." John pulled out the offending object, which had been placed back into its packaging.

"John, I'm sure that you're mistaken." Mycroft clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Sherlock was buried with his scarf, as I'm sure he would have wanted."

John held out the soft dark blue fabric. "Then what would you call this?"

Mycroft stared at the scarf for a minute, eyes unblinking, before meeting John's eyes. "A well-duplicated fake?" John shook his head.

"Impossible. It  _smells_ like him, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother stayed silent for a few minutes, presumably trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone had stolen this scarf from the body of his dead brother. Finally, he nodded and made some notes on his phone. "I'll look into this matter. Surely we can turn something up." He reached over and picked up the packaging. "We'll analyze this to figure out where it came from." Mycroft looked up and studied John for a moment, as if he wasn't sure about something. Eventually, he seemed to make a decision. "You can hold onto the scarf, if you'd like. We probably won't get much out of it, anyway."

John felt both relieved and uneasy at the same time. "Are you sure?" He didn't even notice that he was currently clutching the scarf tightly to his chest. It just felt so natural now that he probably wouldn't be able to pry it out of his hands right now even if he tried.

"I'm sure. You seem to need it more than I do, anyway." With that Mycroft turned to his driver and said "We'll be heading back to the office after this." He turned back to John and said simply "You can go now."

John climbed awkwardly out of the car and he watched Mycroft and the black town car proceed rather quickly down the street. Well, that had been one of the briefest meaningful conversations he'd ever had. At least he could count on Mycroft to get something done. Maybe now he could get some peace to deal with all of this.

John had no sooner settled in on his couch and flipped on the telly when he heard the familiar sound of someone buzzing up to his apartment. John walked over to the system and pressed the intercom button.

"Hello?"

A timid voice responded. "Um...is this Dr. John Watson? I need your help...with a mystery."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did it again. I missed the Saturday posting date. *slams head on desk* But, in my defense, I do have a really great excuse this time. I was working at a local theatre camp this week, and I was at the theatre for over thirteen hours yesterday. I didn't have a ton of time to post this.  
> Also, this might be the last chapter for a while. I move into my dorm room for my freshman year of college on Thursday this week, and I have a crap ton of packing to do.  
> But the good news is that the story on this site has finally caught up to the one on FF.net! So now, I'll be posting any new chapter on both sites, regardless of what day of the week it is. It might be a long wait, but I'll make it worth it, I promise!  
> Final note: The song quoted in the beginning is what I'm using as inspiration for writing John's emotions. It's a beautiful song, and you should all definitely look it up.

Just send me home. You bear your burdens,

I'll bear mine. It's better that way,

please believe me.

– "Oedipus Rex" Lines 364-366

* * *

Float down

Like autumn leaves

Hush now

Close your eyes before the sleep

And you're miles away

And yesterday you were here with me

Ooh how I miss you

My symphony plays the song that carries you out

Ooh how I miss you

And I miss you and I wish you'd stayed

-Ed Sheeran "Autumn Leaves"

* * *

Ch. 4: The Girl With the Case

John was surprised and more than a little wary. Why was somebody coming to him with a case? Sherlock had been the detective, he had just gone along for the ride. And besides, Sherlock wasn't here to solve anything. Finally, he pressed the intercom again.

"You do realize that I'm not a detective, right? Sherlock Holmes is the one you'd be looking for, but..." His voice trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. The timid voice got more persistent.

"I know, but he's dead." John winced. "Surely you can help me in some way? I'm desperate." Indeed, the voice did sound desperate. It was no longer nervous. In fact, the voice seemed to have gained strength in its pleading desperation. John sighed. Clearly whoever this was really needed some kind of help, but he probably wasn't the guy for that unless they were injured. But it couldn't hurt to hear them out, right?

"Come on up." John pressed the buzzer, then sat back down on the couch to wait. Finally, he heard a knock at his door. When he opened it, he found a woman waiting on the other side. She was young, probably in her early twenties, with light brown hair and brown eyes. She was short and thin, and she looked as though she hadn't had a good nights sleep in a while.

"Dr. Watson?" She looked him up and down cautiously. "My name is Anita Tate." It was then that John noticed that her voice had a slight twinge of an American accent.

"Pleasure. Come on in, then." John awkwardly led her over to his couch, wincing at its state of upheaval. "My apologies for the mess."

"Doesn't bother me. My flat is the same right now anyway." She had a kind smile. Once she had found a spot amidst the blankets, pillows, and papers, John sat down in his armchair.

"So, what exactly is this mystery of yours?" She got a sad look in her eyes.

"My mother passed away last week. We found her hanging by a rope in her bedroom."

John was a bit startled. "Erm... I'm sorry for your loss. Now, is the mystery whether or not she killed herself, because an autopsy would tell you that." Anita frowned.

"Yes and no. The autopsy and the police have decided that she killed herself. No questions or anything. But I know my mother, she was a strong and happy woman. There was no way she would have killed herself."

"Listen, I know it might be a bit hard to accept." John had to approach this very carefully. This could escalate rather quickly. "But some people who are depressed are rather good at hiding it-"

"Not in this case." Anita got a fierce look in her eyes. "And anyway, I haven't gotten to the most interesting part of this yet. My father went missing on the very day she died."

John raised his eyebrows. "Do you suspect that your father killed your mother?"

"I don't know what to think. All I know is that they'd argued the day before and twenty-four hours later she was dead and he had completely vanished."

"And what did the police think about this?" Anita scoffed.

"They just told us to file a missing persons report. They think that she hung herself because he left or something else completely bonkers. They want this to be closed and done with."

John sat there quietly for a moment. Clearly the Yard wouldn't be much help on this. If he were to take this case on, he'd be on his own. And without Sherlock, John didn't think he could solve this case. But Anita looked so desperate...

"So...what exactly are you asking me to figure out here?"

Anita looked almost angry now. "I'm asking you to find my father and settle the question of whether or not my mother killed herself." John nodded slowly, thought it through for a moment, and stood up.

"Okay." He looked Anita dead in the eye. "I don't think I can help you with this."

Anita was definitely angry now. "Why not?"

"First of all, if the autopsy says that your mother killed herself, than I don't see why that wouldn't be true. Second of all, if the police can't do anything about your father, I'm not sure what you expect me to do."

Anita stood up, an indignant look in her eyes. "You can't be serious. You've taken on cases twice as difficult as this one-" With that, John snapped.

"I didn't take on those cases. Sherlock Holmes did. And in case you haven't noticed, he's DEAD. He's dead He's dead HE'S DEAD!" John fell back into his chair, tears making a reappearance. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I'm just the one who got left behind."

The room became very silent then. Anita didn't attempt to comfort him. She just watching him as he sat there and cried. Finally, she spoke.

"Well then. Clearly you aren't in any position to take on a case right now." John looked up, more than a little startled by the fact that she had ignored his refusal to help. Anita held up a hand to shush any protests. "Listen. You just need some time." She pulled a slip of paper out of her purse. "If you change your mind, call me."

With that, she let herself out of the apartment. John sat in his chair for a while. He couldn't believe that he had just screamed at someone who wanted his help and then burst into tears in front of her. John picked up the scarf again and held it to his face. "Goddammit Sherlock. Why did you have to go and jump off that goddamn hospital roof?" John let himself cry into the scarf.

* * *

Hours passed. John didn't pay attention to time. He just let himself grieve like he hadn't before. He let himself cry for hours instead of holding back his tears. He curled up in his chair and closed all the blinds, and he just lay in the dark for a while. For the past five months, he had held everything back and just told himself to man up. Until the graveside visit, he hadn't had a full scale breakdown. He'd usually just stopped himself when he got too close. But now the floodgates had completely broken down and his defenses had been totally shattered. John finally let himself feel everything he had repressed since he saw Sherlock fall. It might have been decidedly not masculine, but John honestly didn't care right at that moment.

The tears were broken when, surely hours after Ms. Tate had let herself out, John heard his buzzer go off for the second time that day.

John brushed away his tears and pressed the intercom button. "Hullo?"

The voice he heard was the last one that he had expected. "Oh, good, John. You're here." John blinked, startled. What was she doing here?

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course. Who else would I be? Anyway, I'm here because I got another one of those packages. You know, like the one that came while you were at the flat yesterday?"

A blast of cold shock shot though John. "Come on up." He buzzed up his former landlady, then waited in dread of what could possibly be in this second package. When Mrs. Hudson finally arrived, grim dread like a black veil had set in. While John had been strangely grateful for the first package, the fact that there was a second could only mean trouble.

"Ah, here we are." Mrs. Hudson, bundled up in her warm coat, tottered into the flat. "Well, you've got yourself a nice little place here. Only meant for one person of course, but it works for you." John couldn't see a package in her arms.

Erm...Mrs. Hudson...where's the package?" Judging by the look on her face, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Now, young man, that is no way to greet a guest." She set her bag and coat on the kitchen table. "A hello and a hug will suffice."

John stood up and complied. "It's good to see you, Mrs. Hudson, it really is." After a brief hug, she reached into her bag.

"Now then. Here you go." She handed him the package. It was much smaller this time, around the size of a book, and covered in a similar array of postage stamps. John picked it up and bounced it in his hands a bit. It was incredibly light. He carefully peeled the wrapping off of it and, bracing himself, took off the tape that had sealed the box shut. John finally opened the box and was horrified at the sight of what was inside. It was a couple of locks of ginger hair.

"Oh god." John set the box back on the table in horror. Mrs. Hudson reached over and picked up the open box herself.

"Oh dear!" She dropped the box too, and, looking a little faint, pulled up a chair and sat down. Neither of them said anything more. John just stared at the locks of hair sitting in the box. They were most definitely gingery, and they had a bit of curl to them. Most of them appeared to have been cut off with scissors, but under careful examination, a couple of the hairs seemed to have been directly pulled out of someone's head. After a while, an idea popped into John's head.

"Mrs. Hudson, why don't you make us some tea? I think that I've got a phone call to make." The older woman nodded, worry clear in her wrinkled face, and headed into the kitchen. John pulled out his phone and walked over to the other side of the room. He dialed a number that he hadn't called for months. Five months, to be exact. After a few rings, he heard a cheery greeting at the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi Molly, it's John Watson. I need you to do a DNA test for me."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Upcoming chapter updates will be much less frequent (think one per month). Apologies for the wait, but I think that this chapter may be worth it ;)   
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

No man will ever

be rooted from the earth as brutally as you.

– " _Oedipus Rex" Lines: 488-489_

Ch. 5: The Man With The Proof

Molly had been very surprised and confused before John explained, and even once he had explained, she was still hesitant.

"I don't know John. I understand that you need to figure this out. I mean, it is pretty strange that someone is sending this to you. But the hair might not be much of an accurate DNA sample. There's no telling how long this hair has been in this box, and we could end up not getting anything out of this. And anyway, I'm not sure that I'm the right person to do this."

"Come on, Molly. You can totally test the hair for me. I know that you can." Silence on the other line. "Please, Molly? I'm desperate." Molly sighed.

"Alright, fine. Just come over tomorrow morning and we'll do the tests."

Now, John was walking through the halls of St. Bart's for the first time since that fateful day in May. It was incredibly depressing to know that Sherlock wouldn't be bounding down the halls beside him or come popping out from his usual lab, test samples in hand. The doctors walking past him in the halls stared at him, looking for the curly-headed detective.

When John reached Sherlock's former lab, he was surprised to find that it looked almost exactly the same as it had on the day of the fall. Of course, many of the experiments had needed to be cleaned up, but the equipment was all still in place. John smiled bitterly. Molly's crush on Sherlock may have been a little hopeless, but she would at least understand part of what he was going through. Not that anyone else knew about that part, but still.

Speaking of the young mortician, she was fiddling with some of the lab equipment in a corner of the lab. There was a nervous look in her eyes, with a tinge of guilt flickering through when John walked into the lab.

"Oh, hey John." She set her equipment back on the counter.

"Hi Molly." John gave her a hug, noticing the way she stiffened up when he wrapped his arms around her. As John pulled away, he looked dead into her eyes. She practically flinched and looked away. _She knows something...something that she can't tell me..._

"Alright, then. Do you have the hair samples?" Molly pulled away and went back to work with her equipment, still not meeting John's eyes. John just studied her quietly for a moment. If she wasn't telling him something important, than he should ask her about it. But if she was just uncomfortable about being around him without Sherlock, than he didn't want to offend her and push her even farther away.

John knew what Sherlock would do in this situation. He would observe every little detail about Molly in the blink of an eye and be able to deduce what was so obviously bothering her. But Sherlock wasn't here, so that solution wouldn't do anything.

It was at that moment that an idea hit him. He could try his hand at deduction. he would undoubtedly be rubbish at it. Only Sherlock could truly deduce. But he had spent so much time watching Sherlock make his brilliant deductions, surely something had subconsciously entered his brain.

John handed Molly the gingery hair samples and silently observed her as she ran tests. He couldn't see any make-up on her eyes or lips. In fact, he saw no make-up on her face at all. Her eyes had dark circles under them; she clearly hadn't gotten a good night's sleep the night before. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun; she might not have showered recently either. John didn't see anything abnormal in her clothes, though there was a small, brownish stain on the bottom of her familiar lab coat. John had seen that kind of stain before; definitely blood. Perhaps it had gotten onto her coat while she was performing an autopsy; John didn't know. Sherlock would have been able to tell exactly how the blood had gotten on there and how long it had been there. Sherlock would know what was bothering Molly by now. Clearly, John was not Sherlock, because he had absolutely no clue what was wrong. All he knew was that whatever it was, it was keeping Molly up at night.

John was so focused on his deductions that he didn't even notice that Molly was trying to talk to him.

"John... John. John?" She had a look of blank worry on her face. He didn't realize that Molly was trying to get his attention until she grabbed his arm. He was so startled that he nearly jumped a foot in the air.

"Jesus!" John stumbled backward, arms flailing as he collapsed into the counter behind him, sliding down to the tiled floor. Molly set down the petri dish in her hands and knelt down beside him.

"John? John, what's wrong?" She was shaking him gently, feeling his forehead for a fever. John just shook her off and tried to sit up.

"I'm fine, Mol, I'm fine. I'm just a little shaken up, is all." John pulled himself up to his feet. "Anyway, you were saying something?" Molly studied John silently for a moment. She finally met John in the eyes, and John could see that the guilt that had dominated her mousy brown eyes earlier had almost completely diminished in place of worry. Maybe there wasn't anything to worry about after all. Finally, Molly spoke.

"I was just saying that I need a sample to compare against the hairs you brought. I can't test for who the hairs belong to without a DNA sample from the person that you think that they might belong to. Do you have another sample?" She spoke carefully and calmly, with an even voice and a reassuring tone.

John nodded and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a couple of dark strands of hair in a plastic bag and handed it to Molly. She studied the hairs for a moment, and when she looked back up at John, her eyes were nervous and fearful.

"John...these aren't...?" John just nodded, meeting Molly's eyes dead on with as much determination as he could muster. Molly went a little pale, looking at the hairs with a mix of reverence and horror. "John...why are we testing his hair? You don't think..."

John sighed. "I don't know what to think Molly. I just need to cover all of the angles before jumping to conclusions." Molly stared at John, seeming unsure wether she should feel respect for him or question his sanity. After a couple of minutes, she turned and went to work. John didn't say anything, and neither did she.

* * *

After an hour of intense silence, Molly's mobile went off. The chirping sound made both John and Molly jump. Molly picked it up and looked at the caller ID.

"John, I have to take this. Can you keep an eye on the computer? The DNA should finish analyzing any minute now." Molly ran out into the hallway, leaving John alone with the computer and his thoughts.

As the computer continued to process the DNA, John went through contingency plans in his head. If the DNA didn't match up, than he would have to come up with a whole new theory as to the packages being sent to him. If the DNA did match up...John wasn't sure what he would do. The very idea was so...unfathomable that John didn't even want to go there. He had seen Sherlock fall, though, John acknowledged now, he had not seen him hit the pavement.

A loud beeping brought John back to reality. The computer had finished analyzing the DNA in the hair. John looked at the screen and his heart did backflips in his chest. The DNA matched.

Molly came running in, clearly having heard the beeping from the hallway. She looked from the computer screen to John, frozen in shock, and back to the computer again.

"John..."John just walked away from the computer, peering out the small window of the lab. The people outside were still going about their days, walking along the sidewalk, talking on their mobiles, hailing cabs, and just generally appearing completely normal. John felt a fleeting wish for normality, a wish to not be thrown through these emotional loops and being put through all of this stress.

It was only a fleeting wish, however. John looked back at the worried Molly, a small smirk flitting across his face.

"Sherlock's alive."


	8. Ch. 6: The Final Clue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Christmas miracle, Charlie Brown! I finally updated this story!
> 
> Seriously though, this chapter has given me much trouble over the past couple of months. I've written and rewritten it three times now, but I've finally reached something of which I can be proud. I'm dropping some pretty big hints in this one. Any consulting detectives out there who have any idea where I'm going with this? ;)
> 
> Chapters will continue to be few and far between, though I'll do my best to get the next one up much quicker.
> 
> Shout-outs to johnsarmylady, FinlanderGirl, DrEvilsketch, and justtheone for their kind reviews. :)
> 
> If you'd like, you can follow me on Tumblr, url: alonewiththewayitwas
> 
> I hope that you are all having an excellent holiday season, and happy reading!

Blind who now has eyes, beggar who now is rich,

he will grope his way toward a foreign soil,

a stick tapping before him step by step.

– "Oedipus Rex" Lines 517-519

Ch. 6: The Final Clue

The rest of the day had flown by in a chaotic blur. John had gone straight from St. Bart's to his apartment, where he had promptly informed the landlord that he would be moving out within the day. He had then packed up all of his belongings in his apartment, which had not taken him very long. That had led him to where he was now, standing in front of 221B, his few belongings sitting behind him as he ran the buzzer. It was all he could do to hope that Mrs. Hudson had not had any luck in renting out his previous home.

When Mrs. Hudson finally answered the door, after what had felt like ages, all John had to do was look at her, and she immediately knew why he was at her doorstep.

"Come on in, dearie. I"ll put a kettle on the stove for you."

The two of them settled down in the elderly landlady's kitchen, two steaming mugs of tea in front of them. All of John's things had been stacked up by his armchair upstairs, and all of John's energy seemed to have gone with them. He felt infinitely exhausted, the emotional stress of the past week finally showing its wear and tear. Mrs. Hudson looked at him very sympathetically, handing him a second mug of tea before he had even finished off his first one.

"So, what made you change your mind about living here?" Her eyes stared directly into John's, compelling him to tell her everything. And he wanted to, he really did. He didn't want to withhold his recent revelation, that Sherlock wasn't really dead, from her. Yet there was that voice of reason in the back of his head again, reminding him that the only proof that he had was dyed strands of Sherlock's hair. Though it had given him hope, it really wasn't much to go on, and he didn't want to get Mrs. Hudson's hopes up only to crush them again if he was wrong.

"I just decided that I needed to stop running from the past is all." He couldn't quite meet her eyes anymore, even though it wasn't an outright lie. "Anyway, the flat's still open, right?"

"Of course it is, dearie. Who do you think that I've been leaving it open for all of this time?"

* * *

John spent the night settling into the flat again, unpacking all of his belongings, refolding all of his clothing, and the like until finally, he had nothing else left to do to occupy his time. So he simply sat. If the pattern followed, he should be receiving another mysterious package within the next day or so. Until then, however, John would simply have to wait. And while he waited, he developed theories.

Theory #1: Sherlock is dead, but someone got a hold of his DNA and is cloning a gingery replacement.

Theory #2: Sherlock is dead, but Moriarty is alive and planning to use Sherlock's scarf and hair to play with John's brain, only to either kill him or drive him mad.

Theory #3: Sherlock is alive, and hiding out from shame and/or guilt.

Theory #4: Sherlock is alive, and up to something...

Though John knew that of all of his theories, the second one was the most likely, he wanted desperately to believe that the fourth one was reality. Would he still be angry with Sherlock if he was indeed alive after all of this? Of course. Someone would probably have to hold him back from beating the shit out of Sherlock when he was done with him. But still, that was a much nicer alternative compared to the other options.

John sat in his armchair and theorized for so long that eventually he must have dozed off. He was awoken by a gentle shaking, which got less and less gentle as he slowly awoke.

"Oh good, then. You're finally awake." John looked up to see Mrs. Hudson staring at him in a concerned manner, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly. "It's about time, you've nearly slept half the day away." John looked at his watch to notice that he had indeed slept long past the morning and into the afternoon. He was so startled by this (he hadn't slept in this much since the days of his nights out at the pubs during medical school), that he almost didn't notice that a familiar-looking package was sitting at his feet.

"Another package came?"

"Indeed. I do hope that this is the last of these. They're far too suspicious, and they get you all flustered, which can't be good for your health." Mrs. Hudson prattled on for a bit, but John tuned her out, focusing solely on the package in front of him. When he carefully opened the parcel and reached in, he was surprised to feel his fingers brush against paper. When John pulled out the mysterious paper object, he examined it only to find that it was a German-English dictionary, the kind that one might use for translating purposes. John's brain began racing a mile a minute. He stood up, startling Mrs. Hudson out of her chatter."

"If you don't mind, I'm going to need some privacy." When his landlady looked at him in absolute bewilderment, he met her gaze. "I think I'll be going out of town for a couple of days."

* * *

In an office on the other side of London, a desk phone rang. Mycroft Holmes smirked. "Right on schedule."

 


End file.
